


Heart Thief

by BanditQueen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Avengers AU, F/M, Fantasy, POV Original Female Character, Plot, Reader-Insert, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanditQueen/pseuds/BanditQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Asgard AU, sort of. Reader point of view. This is a full blown project: expect this fan fiction thick with plot, twists and turns, and, of course, romance.)</p><p>Only your village knows your face, your name-- but the whole galaxy knows who you are. You are the Heart Thief. Illustrious, charming and righteous, you are an artifact stealer and clandestine sorceress, who has never been caught. And you plan to remain that way: your whole village relies on you to scrape by as the nobility and royalty reap the rewards. You have given up a happy ending for the sake of others. But when you are given orders to steal from the silver Prince of Asgard, your life and others' becomes endangered from the corners of all the realms; it is not just the King's Guard that want you now. And as you make an unexpected alliance with the Prince you had stolen from, you may finally discover who you really are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Star's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that will progress at a slow but growing rate, so if you want to be part of a three-dimensional story, you have come to the right place. I believe stories should have substance, and this fan fiction has developed into something much bigger than I anticipated. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have making it. I apologise in advance for slow updates: I am currently in my exam year, so homework and stress will be high. Do tell me if you enjoy-- I do it for you guys!

Starlight danced in the darkness like it once did in the night sky, and its glow streaked silver on the looming walls, and you held the star’s heart with two careful hands. Of the millions of dead stars that no longer lit the emptiness of space, this one’s core still burnt through blackness and lit your keen eyes bright. You had hit jackpot.

It was no different from your previous orders: retrieve the artefact, keep it safe until the next meeting and then decide who to sell it to. Jewels and collectors’ items were always on your hit list. You were trusted with tricky tasks, but by the Gods did you crave the challenge. Stealing a star’s heart from a galactic museum was a just another day’s work.

Planet K’ai was just one more planet to you: a cataclysmic event caused a near decimation of its population, with a few inhabitants relying on sorcery for a few hundred years. Now, it was one of the galaxy’s museums, a glorified show and tell that few ever had the privilege to steal from.

You wondered why Ravagers had not bothered coming here. But this was your territory now, and no one attempts to compete with your effortless crimes, in fear of disappointment. You were a hard act to follow.

And that you stole one of their ships. You had used the old piece of junk to get yourself here, as you always did on these jobs. However, you did charm the craft to deter any unwanted attention. No one had ever caught you, and you would rather not be associated with any other criminal organisation, including Ravagers, if you had a bounty on your head.

Dirt landscapes, languid swamps and toothpick trees provided little beauty for your eyes and covering for your ship. You adored the scenic surroundings and vivid, strange skies of new worlds, and the familiar splendour of your own.

You were Asgardian through and through. You may dwell in a little, poor village on the edge of the world, but you had seen nature’s wonders just a day’s ride away. The home of the Gods was the spark of Midgardian legend and lore, and planets like K’ai were specks of dust to the immensity and the glory of your world.

To your luck, the museum was built in the innards of a snowless mountain, surrounded by thick dead forests. You had landed safely and out of sight, and your trek to the mountain museum gave you time to think through your plan. If any inhabitants or workers were roaming the dead land, they would not see your face.

You bore a dark woollen tunic, adaptable trousers and a sleeveless leather cloak that fell to the backs of your thighs, with your (h/c) braid tucked in the hood. Your knee high boots were light and dainty, perfect for running away or quiet escapades, and your slight gloves stopped any physical tracks being left behind. Your well-worn, beloved satchel was tucked neatly underneath the over clothing, and the waist belt and thigh holster held strange powders, miniscule bottles, and a diamond that possessed more worth than your life seven times over.

Your boss had given you the diamond and an outline of the scheme, and let you prepare the rest. Of course, the main element of your successful steal was sorcery.

That was how you discovered the staff-only entrance to the museum, with a simple revealing spell. It was cunningly placed behind a large, ‘subtle’ boulder. Even some of the Asgardian guards, the Vordhr, would know there was a door covered by the stone. With much kerfuffle, you barely squeezed between the bolder and the mountainside, earning a few scratches. That’s the most damage you will get today.

With a quick movement, you caressed the wood of the doorway, and it clicked open. You smirked. Old technology was easily overcome by your magic.

The corridors of the museum were dimly lit, with a few odd candles lining the walls to warn you of sudden lefts or doorways to other rooms. Every step you took, the slab of marble below would illuminate a warm umber: a magical and charming addition for the guards, it seemed. The artefact you were looking for was on the bottom level, of the third quadrant. It was a relaxing walk through the corridors to get there.

You were light-footed, with not a sound made as you passed numerous displays. Had you not been a thief all your life, you would have been beaten by the King’s Guard or locked away in the palace prisons by now. The thought of it made you smirk. If anyone thought they could lay hands on you, then they would not have hands left.

You had left your beloved knives in the ship. Why bother with weapons when no one would hurt you? Although you were an illustrious delinquent, you were a thief, not a murderer of innocents.

Footsteps that were not your own boomed louder as you continued through the walkways, and the burnt orange glow of the floor was growing brighter by each step. A guard. He was a Xandarian, with small eyes and long, thick hair tied back underneath a cap. He narrowed his gaze once he spotted you, and his little mouth opened to speak until you tenderly touched the right side of his neck when you passed by.

He bowed his head whilst his eyes glazed over in forgetfulness, and muttered “Your Highness” to your amusement. Your spells had a strange, short term side-effect that had occurred for many years now, earning you your cover name to protect your identity. After all, “(y/n) the Thief” did not really have the same ring to it as your alias. You smiled at the guard, and resumed your journey.

If you were miserly, and had half of the audacious cheek that Asgardian bandits did, you would have stolen some of the displays you had passed by. There were no visitors on the Sun’s day, and very little guards – and the artefacts, my. There were dark amethysts and emeralds, and bright stones you had never laid eyes on from the depths of Eomuma, and ancient philosophic scrolls and the earliest instruments of the Centurii, and the first ever interstellar travel blueprint from the planet Guna.

You had too strong of a moral standing to steal more relics, as well your target. Even if you were a criminal, you were a better kind than your bandit counterparts, and your Guild’s motto was Protect Your Own. The only part of stealing that was selfish in any way was the endorphin kick you received from it. The money you earn does not stay with you.

Nearing the end of the museum’s second quadrant, you turned right instead of left and found the room you were looking for. With a few tentative steps forward, you wrapped one of your gloved hands on the metal doorknob, cracked open the door and peered into what was a security room. The female Arcturan with her feet kicked up and half a bag of a home world snacks was staring at the security screens with a wide, unblinking gaze. Cameras were a pain in the arse, and you wanted no nonsense.

You flicked your fingers up, and silvery shadows slipped around your digits in an intricate embrace.

“ _Fœra hrið hǫfgi_ ,” The words rolled off your tongue in a quiet mutter. The silver shadows shot to the guard.

The screens went black. The Arcturan’s head rolled back, and a soft snore rumbled through the room. The spell would last fifteen minutes, and then she would wake as if she was still stuffing her face and doing her job.

You went on your way.

It was not long before you had arrived at your destination. On your right were two rows of antique trinkets, collections from the old kingdoms of the galaxy with the most expensive taste. On your left were two guards, arms crossed and jabbering between themselves. It was hard to tell what race they were – the blackness that surrounded them shrouded your sight and you too. And behind the guards was your target.

To your eye it seemed all the shadows of the room abided around the jewelled casket, the darkness allowing the starlight to glow in all its majesty. There were five steps up to the glass podium where the box hovered: it was the main focus of this section. The tiny casket was translucent and sprinkled with fine gems that could balance on your fingertip. The box itself would cost thousands of units or gold, but the real artefact was what it contained.

By this point, the guards had noticed you. You sniffed. You carried on forward until you nearly passed the guard.

His hand flew up and you stopped, playing a confused expression on your face.

“Excuse me, miss. I need authorisation to allow you past this point.”

Your pursed lips and furrowed brow transformed into a soft expression. Cupping each hand on both the guards’ cheeks, you muttered, “But I have already given you it.”

Their knees buckled, their arms outstretched before them, and they knelt before you in worship.

“Your majesty, we beg for you utmost forgiveness!”

The small, benign smile had now turned into a sly grin.

“I do not want you to beg. I just ask for a favour.”

“Princess of Stars, Queen of Illusion, the Heart Thief, we will do anything!” The second guard spoke quickly, his voice high and eager, “We are in your service.”

You licked your bottom lip. Your full criminal title was quite a mouthful, but it would have to do. After all, who doesn’t want to be known as a Queen? In hindsight, you should have known the people would create elaborate titles to romanticise your crimes, speaking highly of how you stole the public’s hearts with your just cause, but as a commoner you took pleasure in such a worthy name. The books you hoard are filled with princesses and dragons and happy endings, and the dream-like alias made you feel more... heroic in your deeds. Maybe you would have a happy ending.

But for now, you were tricking guards.

“As you know, my certain line of work requires artefacts beyond compare. To provide for my village, and whatnot. And the beauty you are guarding has been chosen to aid my cause,” You crouch now, catching the guards’ gaze to intensify the enchantment, “I don’t suppose you could let me pass and take the relic? Just this once.”

After a still moment, the first guard with a dazed expression replied, “Of course, your highness.”

You snorted in amusement, and the guards smiled back. Standing straight, you stepped past the guards and stretched out your fingers, climbing up the few steps, “You are ever so kind.”

“Besides, the museum is receiving another star’s heart, so it’s the least we can do,” You heard the swish of the guard’s cloak on the cold, stone floor as the second man turned to follow your movements.

 _Because it is normal for a planet to ship in star’s hearts like food_ , you murmur in your mind, each syllable bitter and angered. You breathed out the spitting thoughts, knowing the sentiments to be hazardous to your work, and with delicacy you picked up the casket.

You lifted it up, examining every jewel, every shimmer on the glass. You had time to stare at the design. With a jerk of your left hand, you opened the casket’s lid. You did not wince or blink. The star’s heart could be held between your fore finger and thumb, and its rare shine illuminated your appearance, so the guards could truly see you now.

“You are as beautiful as the rumours state,” The first guard shuffled forward on his knees.

“You flatter me,” Your voice was mumbled, monotone, unchanging. The beauty was cupped in your hands, not in your demeanour, and your eyes dared not look away.

You had hit jackpot.

Back in the casket the star’s heart went, and you let the box hover above your left hand. This is when your eye for detail came in. Contorting and twisting, your right hand produced spurts and flashes of silver while your lips conjured old charms and words.

“ _Skapa, nyr eða forn, nyr bera yfirbragð liki forn.._.”

Mutterings filled the darkness, silencing the guards. Your eyes did not move away from the casket. As a new creation was forming in your hand, the vivacity in your body left you. This complicated sorcery drained you. It was not too bad – you liked to work hard, when it came to your thievery.

The charm stopped. With deep breath, you closed your eyes and let your head rest a few moments. You felt the duplicate box in your hand, and out of your thigh holster you pulled out a tassel bag, heavy with the diamond, known as a “star’s tear”. With the right lighting, similar to the illumination in the museum, the diamond would appear to glow just like a star. It would fool the curators for a week, maybe two, and that’s enough time for the second star’s heart to arrive at the museum.

On your heel you spin to face the guards, your breathing a little laboured, “I thank you for your compassion, good men.”

“It was our pleasure,” They chimed together. You trotted down the steps, the real casket playing in your hands and then placed in your leather satchel.

“Despite your welcoming outlook, I’m afraid you are going to have to forget about this whole encounter in about a minute or so. But you do not mind. Do you?”

They shook their heads. You flicked your hands up, silver sparks hitting their chests and the time ticking away until they forget your existence.

“Well, on your feet, then! You have a job, and you should be doing it, am I correct?”

They leapt up, brushing themselves down and bowing, with no reconciliation of the sorcery that smacked its way into their bodies, “Right away, your majesty.”

You bowed in return, and with quick steps left the same way you came.

This time you moved faster, desperate for a rest. You had a lazy streak in your enthusiastic nature, and the Ravagers’ ship seemed perfect now to settle in. It would have taken you weeks to thoroughly clean the interior if not for your magic, and you thanked the Gods you did not have to use your own hands. After several encounters with Peter Quill, you doubted the ship was hygienic.

You passed the security room and heard the snort of the Arcturan waking up. And the first guard you encountered marched by you again, and you gave him a friendly wave, and he bowed his head in respect. A stroke on the door, and a squeeze between a boulder and a mountain later, you were out. Nothing compared to the stepping out of the darkness inside into the fresh light of the day, and the feeling of a successful steal.

You licked your lips. You began walking. And you whistled a jolly little tune you could play on the fiddle, and you hiked your way back to your ship, thinking about home.


	2. The Black Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are now reading this, thank you! My heart goes out to you!

Waves lapped up the cliffs then surged up, up, up, pushing further to reach the caves and the land high above the deep blue. You hovered over the Great Water, the sea deep and dangerous and drowning shattered rocks that cut through the surface. At the edge of your world, the sea was a marvel and untameable creature.

You had flown across the borderline between one realm and another, and had found the particular crook in the black and broken rock to land your ship. Sea spray and salty breeze spattered against your ship’s windowpane, but soon you were in the dark shelter from the Great Sea’s fury, and way high in the cliff’s face.

This was your parking spot.

Climbing out of the ship, you sprang down onto the cold rock, light on your feet and swinging your heavy loot over your shoulder. Various treasures and trinkets from other escapades were to be sold today, to those willing to buy them. The cool and calming sensation of swirling silver around your palms lit the dank cave, and you began muttering enchantments to protect and conceal your ship. You had no intentions of losing it, or lending it.

Moments passed and a thin veil of silver shimmered around the ship, and the incantation had been complete. All there was in the cave was the roaring sound of the waves crashing up high against the black rock and the shrieking wind whipping and slicing at your cheeks: you were sure your face was a ruddy shade of red now, shiny and sore from the Great Sea’s cruel weather.

Silent footsteps padded against the cave floor while you continued deeper into the cave, the toothed rock wall consumed by blackness and no firelight to guide you. Your sorcery was your escort: the silvery silk dancing away in front of you and shooting out into the shadow.

You sighed. Your magic had a life of its own.

A door soon appeared in your sight. Sodden, splintered, wooden: there was not much holding the door to the wall, it seemed, but what was behind it was the real obstacle. You tapped a rhythmic knock on the damp wood, and a peephole snapped open, where one, wide green eye the colour of mould glanced around the darkness.

“Password?” The voice rang through the cave, high and thick with common accent.

“Hog’s head,” You replied, and the door swung open to welcome you with a scowl.

The man that greeted you was half your height, hobbling on a makeshift crutch with one eye wrapped up in scrappy brown handkerchief. His inept guise was a wily one: aye, he could beat a King’s guard within an inch of his life, and still have time to belittle you with his short tongue and waving crutch. His name was Thrand, and he loved you really.

“What you doing? With your loot? Selling it to t’market? Aye, thought so, can read you like a book. You're a scallywag you are, you should be married soon, ‘stead of this thieving business... Leave it to us elders... Too many years you've been doing this now, aye—“ The man hobbled after you, your smile hidden away as he squealed on about how it is dangerous work for a young maiden, and you should be at home looking after the family. Oh, he was so blind to your work. And you were no maiden: twenty-one name days had past, and by your fourteenth you were a thief.

The small room where little Thrand abided led to your final destination: the Black Market. Illegality aside, it was a marvel to look at. Torches hung from the high ceiling, lighting the market in an orange firelight, flickering and crackling against the looming black walls. The inner of the cliffs provided a vast expanse secret and secluded from the rest of the outside world. Stalls and shops lined every part of the “hall”, overflowing with jewellery made by banned Dwarf metals and jewels, fresh fruits bursting from the Summer Worlds, weapons crafted and stolen from Asgardian and Galactic stores; music records from Midgard and other worlds played amiably as you browsed, tunes you would never know easily exchanged for goods or gold.

You took your time to your customer. It was in your character to observe the details that surrounded you, and you liked to spot new supplies that you could buy later. Midgardian books and music were high on your list, and you loved the Midgardians’ imagination and talents. Of course, the things you found the most interesting were banned in your realm.

A little girl skipped between the dwindling customers as the Market’s closing time drew nearer. In her tightly closed palm was printed paper, which she handed out to people she passed by. You recognised the little girl: she was the granddaughter of your buyer.

“Afternoon, (y/n)!” The girl sang, handing you the leaflet. You smiled at her, and then smiled down at the handout, which were the Black Market’s rules. Despite its obvious law-breaking nature, the Asgardian Black Market was not a vile creation. Unlike others you have known, the one close to home had strict rules that all must abide: shop-keepers, suppliers, and customers alike follow the rules constantly and loyally. Nobody wants to mess with the Black Market’s owner. “One: We are completely against the Asgardian Slave Trade. Two: Bandits are not welcome to the Asgardian Black Market, and are banned from supplying items. Three: A licence is required to buy weapons or magical objects. Four...”

You continued to mutter the rules under your breath. After many years supplying and buying in this homely place, you wondered if you could recite the rules off by heart. You began to, only to bump into a stout, busty woman with a blotched face red with anger.

“Ah, Hulda,” You folded up the leaflet and stuffed into your pocket, “I was just on my way.”

Her face near went purple and she marched back to her stall, and you trailed behind, watching Hulda wave her paint-splattered hands about, “Yes, well so is Yuletide. I thought you had tottered off away back home, leaving me with none of your goods- why, I rely on you for my stock, and I’m becoming sparse, (y/n)! Where have you been? This morning would have sufficed!”

Hulda was a warm woman, jolly and passionate about her stall and her customers. It was no surprise she had seven children and been twenty-three times a grandmother; she was fair-looking despite her foul mood, and her fiftieth name day did not weary her. She enjoyed painting pictures which sold at her stall, as well as weird trinkets that had some tale behind their creation. She also had a tendency to act like a mother: you couldn’t blame her, as you were an absolute nuisance.

“I had a task given to me by my boss. The Guild comes before any personal needs.”

Hulda shuffled behind her stall and wiped the sweat from her brow, “Aye, indeed. I’m sorry, love. Been a stressful day. The King has increased raids on suspected criminals an’ all that.”

You reached over the stall with ease, and touched her shoulder, “You’re not a criminal.”

With a sigh, Hulda held your hand, her skin warm and soft, “Aye, I wish. The law sees us as scum, but what other market will sell these beauties?” She indicated her stall, glistening with artefacts of the old kingdom, “They’ll keep the beauties for themselves, that’s what. ‘Tis a shame not everyone will see these.”

“It is,” You nodded, swinging your loot down from your back, “And I have more for you.”

Hulda clapped her hands and squealed as you placed various objects onto the red tablecloth: candlesticks from King Louis XII’s dining table, a crystal that shimmered both brilliant greens and burning reds from the volcanic rock of a far off planet, and an assortment of royal jewellery that had been lost for centuries. You were sure Hulda was going to faint.

“You are a star,” Hulda arranged the new pieces immediately upon her stall, “Every time you bring new things my heart is stolen.”

“That’s my name,” you mutter to yourself, your little joke not heard by anyone in particular.

“And for your kindness, three hundred gold coins.”

“Three hundred?” Your eyes widened, and she laughed.

“I thought you’d pay attention if I said that. Three hundred coins, all in that bag.”

Hulda pointed over to a small sack, tied tightly and filled with gold. You tried to not look to starry-eyed.

“Nice doing business with you,” Hulda whispered, as a customer came over to gander. Hulda smiled brightly, and began babbling on about the history of an earring. You picked up the sack of gold and then your loot, and you were on your way again around the Market.

It was not long before all your loot was gone. You were in high demand, and your items were often rare, so stall-owners would often exchange valuable goods or plenty of gold for your products. Years of practice had finally paid off. The Market would close for another day on the Sun’s day’s fifteenth hour, and you knew it was time to go home. Mother would be waiting for you, and the day was far from over. With five hundred and thirteen gold coins, a pack of rabbits prime to be skinned and cooked, and two new books and a record, you left the Market stall through another, much larger door, and climbed a narrow staircase up to the surface.

The bright shine of the afternoon sun peered through the wooden door into the small hut at the top, and you creaked it open, checking for guards. None. You stepped out into the forest, far from the cliff edge now, and kicked the door closed with the tap of your foot. You checked your satchel: the star's heart sparkled amongst the newly bought books. You listened for the faint rush of a river, and you headed in its direction.

Birds flitted between tree to tree, singing a trill song and the sun broke through the canopy to light the undergrowth below. You trod carefully: you did not like disturbing the woodland. You entered a thicket, before stepping down a slope to the Bluewater River. The slender river cascaded over the cliff edge, and its water is the purest in the land. You leapt over the water, and ran up the slope to the next thicket. You heard a whinny and grinned.

“Stjerners!” You called, and it whinnied and brayed, stomping its hooves. The horse was a gift from a customer, whom had hired you for a personal task, and he was the most beautiful horse you had ever seen. He was pure white, with a silver speckled back and a mane the colour of moonlight. On his face was a grey mark the shape of a four-sided star, and his eyes always twinkled, as if a shard of the night sky was now crystallised in his eyes. He was a fair stallion, and the fastest horse you had ever ridden.

“Oh, I’m here now. I hope Thrand has treated you well, hmm?” You rubbed and patted the stallion’s neck, comforting your steed as it nuzzled into your shoulder, “Let’s go home, shall we?” Stjerners whinnied, and you untied him from the tree, packed your belongings onto your horse and then swung onto the saddle. Flicking your hood up, you kicked Stjerners to set him off and he trotted, out of the thicket onto the open road.

You passed travelling merchants and guards patrolling the road. Several stopped you to ask your intentions, and you indicated the rabbits, speaking of a day’s hunting. They allowed you to move along, keeping an eye on the passer-bys below. Several times you would hear the distinguishable sound of a commoner crying out in pain while being beaten by guards, for being on the King’s Road without a permit. Hulda was right; things were getting stricter.

After that incident, you picked up the pace, and the sun was starting to dip beneath the evergreens, and straight ahead of you, brightened by the umber glow of dusk, was your village: Kanten.

“Faster,” You whispered, and Stjerners broke out into a gallop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on demand, I will post chapter three in the near future. Keep your eyes peeled, ladies and gentlemen!


	3. The Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have got this chapter up sooner, but I kept delaying it... But never fear, it is here!
> 
> The notes at the end include Asgardian genetics, as I describe the mother in this chapter (spoilers? Not really) and how it relates to what you look like. So if you want to skip to the end to understand what I have done before you read, that's fine, or you can read the chapter then the notes. Or not all. Your choice, dudes.
> 
> **UPDATE** **12th June 2015**  
> I have been away for too long! Alas, I have been caught up in exams, the pressure of achieving my best and worn out by school. But I have now left school for good, so this summer I can concentrate on relaxing and, you guessed it, writing! I apologise for my absence, and I will be updating as soon as I can! Thank you for your patience.

The sound of children’s laughter invited you back into your village, and squeals of delight echoed in the open air at your arrival, and you couldn’t help but smile.

The children of Kanten flocked around Stjerners, patting him and stroking his mane, and you jumped down from the saddle and let the swarm of children babble at you, questions and stories overlapping each other.

One child jumped up and down, shouting each word of his question on the top of his lungs.

“Will you read us a story?” He cried, and the other children joined in, chanting and begging for story time.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, my angels,” You looked down upon on the small faces of the children, “I promise. Give me a hug good night, then.”

The throng of children all squished up against you and you were drowned in giggles and cuddles, and as the young ones dispersed off to their homes and families, you led Stjerners to the Village Hall.

The Village Hall was the grandest house in the surrounding area, excluding the stately homes of the nobility. Only the best wood was used to build the Hall, and the door was grand and made from iron, and its frame was black marble, smooth and cool to touch. The windows were wide, allowing the villagers to peer into the conference and waiting rooms. Outside, on the wooden posts, crawled ivy in its dark and lush colour, with little pink flowers dotted along the vine. You had not seen many other villages in your life, but to you, this Village Hall was the most homely.

Quickly you tied Stjerners to the fence, and took the sack of gold with you into the Village Hall. Inside, the Village Hall’s walls were white with a silver dido railing, and paintings of the village lined the hallway. They were Hulda’s paintings. You started walking down the long corridor, floorboards creaking and the general murmur of conversation droning in the background. The mayor’s office was straight in front of you: it was the door most decorated, with silver framing the double door, and carvings of woodland creatures into the mahogany. You knocked on the door when you got there, and entered.

“—the company shall arrive at the early hour of eight, and take residence at your Silver Hart Inn, in the Royal suite. There, they shall reside for three days, and continue their journey on the fourth—“

You clicked the door shut behind you, glancing between the mayor and the Royal Messenger. The mayor had a stony look on her face, her hazel eyes narrowed and unblinking, and gingery hair was tightly braided into one, long plait. Despite your interruption, the messenger did not even give you a glance.

“—A Royal hunt shall take place on the second day. We wish Kanten the best for today, and my sons look forward to meeting you in the morrow. Yours sincerely—“

“—Odin Borson, King of Asgard and Protector of the Nine Realms,” The mayor leaned back in her chair, refraining a sigh, “Thank you, good sir. I hope our inn accommodates you well.”

The messenger bowed and briskly turned away, his eyes quickly looking you up and down as he left.

“The royal family are staying, it seems,” You tapped the door closed with your foot and put down your sack, leaning against the door. The mayor’s eyes flickered to you.

“The two princes, Thor and Loki, and one of the Warriors Three. We will have to provide for the royal party, as well.”

“Brilliant,” Your dry tone did not change for anyone, and the mayor found your sarcastic muttering amusing.

She snorted, then leant forward onto her elbows, clasping her hands together, “Ask for Egil, will you please?”

You nodded and peered outside the door, calling for the town crier. A tall and broad man came from one of the offices, his hair no longer growing on his shiny scalp but thick and long on his round face, and you let him in, bowing your head. You may be a criminal, but you are not ill-mannered.

“Call the town for a meeting. We have many things to arrange in a short amount of time.”

Egil bowed and left again, each step resounding through the Hall. After exhaling sharply, you placed the sack of gold onto the mayor’s desk, and placed your hands your hips, forcing a smile.

“Distribute equally between all the households. Five hundred gold coins, all in the sack. The thirteen pieces I have are for me and my mother, but the bag is all for the town.”

The stern look upon the mayor’s face had softened, and the years had no longer wearied her, and her eyes twinkled with thankfulness and maybe even joy.

“You have my gratitude,” The mayor took the sack and placed it by her feet, “The village owes you so much. Perhaps you will join us at the village meeting tonight?”

After a moment’s hesitation, you declined, “I must take care of my mother. I have not been home for the past day. I have missed her.”

The mayor nodded and rose from her seat, “I understand. I look forward to the next time we speak.”

“As do I. Good night.”

And you left. You stepped out into the evening air and breathed it in, the distant tang of the berry fields and the dusty smell of the open road, with the sharp clang of a bell and the bellowing sound of the town crier over the murmurs of the village folk. As you untied Stjerners, who nickered quietly, you looked to the end of your village to the Queen’s Road, surrounded by open fields and rolling hills. One day, you will freely travel Asgard in all its glory, but for now the responsibility and duty to your village and morality will hang over you until you are old and frail.

You past the villagers going to the Hall, and followed the houses that surrounded the Village Hall like petals on a flower. Your house was the last in Kanten, before the Queen’s Road led you past the umber horizon. It was the same as the other homes: built out of timber and sweat, with no staircase or basement or garden, and an outdoor privy at the side of the house. A stable was provided by the customer who gifted Stjerners, and as you had grown older you fixed the leaky roof and broken door, and cleaned the narrow windows until you could see your reflection in them. It was not a palace, or a Hall, but it was home.

Creaking open the stable door, you led Stjerners into the cosy little shelter, and he nuzzled into your neck again, and you chuckled, and began to sing an old Asgardian tale: he always calmed to your voice, and you always sang before you truly arrived home, to let mother know you were there. She always said you were talented, ever since you were a babe.

You did have many a talent, and one of them was sorcery. When your mother heard rumour of your three-year-old self juggling with floating rocks, she was ecstatic. That was until she was told you launched these stones at passer-bys in pure and unadulterated innocence. She would try paddling you with her leather slipper, but with her being blind, it was rare occurrence. Ever since that day, you used your magic for good use, and refrained from aggravating people walking by, despite how tempting it seemed.

With a short knock on the front door, you stepped inside, and the heat of fire warmed your cold blood and you shivered. None of the candles had been lit, so it was only the crackle of the cooking fire that illuminated the tiny house. There was a small sofa, a stool, a metal pot for cooking, a large locked chest in the corner, and a single bed in a much smaller room. And that was all you needed. Your belongings were kept safe in the chest: all your books and music and quills and tokens you had obtained on your visits to the Black Market, and gifts given from grateful customers or villagers. Vases filled with wild flowers were dotted around the splintering windowsills, and the sweet perfume of flowers reminded you of your mother. You heard the careful pitter-patter of your mother’s footsteps, before she entered from the bedroom.

Many children would say their mother was pretty and lovely, but your mother was unlike any women you had ever known. The Midgardians in the ancient age worshipped the Asgardians as Gods, and despite the fact not all people of Asgard were deities, you believed your mama was nothing less than divine. Her hair was dark and could be described as cloud-like; falling in tight, corkscrew curls to her shoulders and her skin was dark too, with no blemish or scar to be seen. You towered over her slight frame, but she was strong in more ways than one.

“I’m here, mama. It’s me, (y/n).” Her full lips upturned into an amiable grin, and the dim firelight crackled in her glazed unseeing eyes, the colour of a winter’s sky.

“Come, how has my little one been?”

Your mother opened her arms out and you gladly entered them in a warm embrace, and you inhaled the strong scent of the summer flowers that clung to your mother’s woollen clothes. She kissed your cheek, those tender lips providing home and consolation.

“I have been well, mama. The task was completed without a hitch.”

You pulled away from her embrace, and led her to the stool. She sat down, still smiling.

“Good, good. My baby girl will never be caught, they say.”

You laughed, “Mother, I’m not your baby girl.”

“You might have had twenty one name days, but you are still a child in the eyes of many!” She wagged her finger at no one in particular as you untied the rabbits from your side. You rolled your eyes.

“Like marriage makes me anymore a woman.”

“Aye, I know so. You make me proud, my princess. I have vegetables from the marketplace to put in the stew, just beside the fire. The man at the stall was ever so gentle, he said...”

You began skinning the rabbits as she spoke of her day: she was a good story teller, describing the noises and smells and touches she experienced throughout the day so well, it was as if your mother could see the world around her.

“... The children came knocking on my door, begging for you. I said to them, ‘she is away on her adventures, but she will back before the sun goes down’, and they got very excited to hear more stories, more and more and more. Their parents must be sick to death of hearing about your story-telling, but at least these children will never be spoilt or thankless. They have good meals and warm beds because of your work.”

“They will not go hungry while I am around,” You mutter, cutting up the rabbit meat and placing it in the bubbling water in the cooking pot.

“Well, I am. Good thing the village remembers to feed me, or I’d waste away without you.”

“Aye, but if that happens there will be Hel to pay, mama.”

Her head snapped round to you, her voice cold and sharp, and eyes icy and unblinking, “ _Do not throw the God’s names like curses, (y/n). You will regret it_.”

You silenced your tongue and finished with the rabbit meat, washed your hands in the little basin and started placing vegetables and sprinkling herbs into the stew, glancing between your mother and the pot. Her knees were locked together, hands gripping her thighs and her lips pursed into a thin line, shaking slightly. It was not the first time something unnatural had overcome her.

You tasted the stew, and picked up the bowls from beside the fire and started to serve dinner.

“Mother, here’s your meal.”

She cupped her hands and you carefully placed the clay bowl into her trembling palms, and after holding the bowl in her left hand, she fumbled for the spoon.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-“

“Do not be sorry, mama. You cannot help it.”

“Curse the Gods all you like, my love. They curse us.”

You did not reply.

You wolfed down your dinner as the sun dipped below the ground, and the rosy sky had been washed in ink and indigo, and the silver stars had started to sparkle in the evening. You washed the pots after your mother had finished, and lit the candles so darkness did not overwhelm your home.

You opened your chest and got out your usual uniform: a brown linen kirtle, a simple bodice, leather slippers and a woollen shawl. From your pockets you got out the star’s heart, twinkling in the box and you hid it well in the chest after you took one long look at the design. And your hands wandered over your trinkets, and ran across the smooth, fine wood of your fiddle. With your luck, you would have to play it for the Royal Party. You sighed and shut the chest. You quickly donned the uniform, the nightfall telling you it was time to work.

“I’m going to the inn now, mother. The candles are lit and the fire is burnt out, and I’ll sort the house out when I get back in. Ragna will be back home by then, too. He’s a cowardly cat.”

“Yes, yes, go, go, my love. I can tend myself. See you in the later hours.”

Goodbye was the last thing you said to your mother before you left the house, and you took in the warm, summer air of Kanten’s night. As you passed the Hall you heard the distant sound of debate and discussion of the village meeting.

It was no surprise that royalty would come to this lowly village: you lived on the edge of your world, where wilderness thrived and marvels appeared in their multitude, if those only took the time to look. Only letters and spoken word kept you in touch with the richer towns and the palace affairs, and the occasional visit of a holidaying noble. It was the perfect place to escape responsibility and busy lives.

If you were rich. Those who lived here still worked hard at the crops and fields for the yield to be given to the wealthy, and little left for the villagers. So for the Princes to arrange a surprising stay to the village with no preparation meant the people would need to work extra hard for less income.

You sighed aloud, with no one to hear. What Princes of Asgard and Gods of all would snatch food from the poor? The Gods were cruel, you decided, and you cursed every single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the way genetics normally work is that you would look a bit like your mother and your father, and you are more likely to have certain alleles than others. For example, you are more likely to have brown eyes than blue if your mum had blue eyes and your dad had brown.
> 
> With Asgardians, there is no dominant/submissive gene, therefore you can get any combination of genetics from your parents, so you look exactly how you look in real life.
> 
> I'm terrible at explaining, but take it this way: your mother in this story is black, dark-haired, and blue eyed. If you are white, fair-haired and blue eyed, then you would take the blue eyed gene from your mother, then presume your (mystery) father is white and fair-skinned. Again, if you are black, dark-haired and brown eyed, you would get your skin colour and hair colour from the story's mother, and presume your (mystery) father would have your eye colour.
> 
> Even if you look nothing like the mother in the story, you would then presume you are similar in appearance to your (mystery) father. And even then, you could have a similar face/body shape to your mother, or the same nose or hands or whatever you want. It's your mum.
> 
> I wanted to cater for everyone's appearance, because this is YOU in this story, and not another character I have created, which has your name and nothing else. So I hope you understand why I wanted to do this, and that it satisfies you as a reader!


	4. The Silver Hart's Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everybody!  
> Long time no see, and I apologise greatly for how long I have left this. But summer has finally arrived, which means relaxing and, you guessed it, writing. I hope this chapter satisfies you after such a long wait, and I'm very excited to write the next chapter. Hope you enjoy guys- if you do, just kudos and comment, if you will.  
> Thank you!
> 
> 7/9/15 EDIT  
> I have edited two lines of dialogue in this.

The distant call of crickets chirped above the hollow sound of your footsteps on the Inn’s porch, and you nodded at the old couple holding hands on the bench by the door. The young were tucked in bed to live in their sweet dreams, the elderly were watching over them, and the capable adults of the village were in the meeting. All that was left were those who chose not to go, those who could not, and the animals that took opportunity to roam free in the empty plaza. A soft miaow of a tomcat trailed away as you entered the Silver Hart’s Inn.

The tavern was alight with a hearth placed on the far right of the main space, with simple wooden chairs and tables dotted around with not a spillage of ale or food evident. There was small platform in the corner for any musician or entertainment to perform, and between each window were drawings and paintings of the famous Silver Hart. To the left was a corridor that led to several simple rooms, and the Royal Suite. The bar you tended was usually sparse of any foreign beverages, with only classic and cheap to buy, but today it was filled with fruity wines and sour mixtures that you had never knew of before.

You heard a clatter of plates in the back kitchen, and you walked over to the noise, “I don’t suppose the new shipments are for us are they, Roald?”

A lanky, long boy, in his 18th year, popped his head out of the kitchen entrance, still holding a dripping sponge and a semi-clean plate in his hands, “Even steal a drop of the new drink, I w-will hit you with a pan. I promise.”

You stepped into the kitchen and dived straight into drying the washed plates from the afternoon’s work, and you had a wicked grin on your face, “You wouldn’t even notice it was gone.”

Roald rubbed the side of his nose, covered in large freckles like his father’s and lathering his long nose in bubbles, and his stare at the dirty water was unblinking. You rolled your eyes; he took things a little too serious for your liking.

“Don’t worry, Roald. I will not play any tricks while the Princes are here.”

The boy relaxed as he picked up the bucket filled with grog and poured it out the window into the back garden, “I knew you were j-joking. I knew it. You just act too calm knowing that the Royals are coming to our village.”

Taking a deep breath, you wiped away the water off the crockery and stared at your distorted, glum expression in a spoon’s reflection. “You know swans, Roald?”

Roald’s thick eyebrows furrowed, “Y-y-yes? Majestic, white, the Royal bird, can br-break your arm. One nearly broke my arm once actually-“

“Yes, yes, yes. When they’re gliding around on the water, they seem like they’re having no trouble in swimming across a lake. It seems they can swim across the Great Water if they wanted,” You finished the last plate, and picked a pile up to put in the cupboard, “They’re graceful. Powerful. But that’s only on the surface. Underneath their feet are moving around like this,” You made your hands flap up and down quickly, “Just to move forward. So if someone looks calm and collected on the outside, it is guaranteed that inside, their hearts are racing like swans’ feet.”

Roald picked up his apron and tied it round his waist, “And th-that’s how you feel?”

You hummed in reply, washing your hands thoroughly in the kitchen’s basin and taking the water outside to be poured into the drain.

“So, when that swan attacked me, was it as scared as was?”

“You know what, Roald, I think so. You’re nearly the same size as one of these Gods, so maybe it thought you were one. That’s why it attacked you; it felt threatened.”

Roald rubbed his shaggy brown hair, looking perplexed, “Really?”

And you smiled, “Absolutely.”

The tavern door swung open, and a group of villagers came in, a particular two still debating over the meeting. You shared a look with Roald, and went to the bar to take orders.

“Having the Princes visit us is an honour! We should be grateful that they even know of this town, never mind decide to visit it!” The first man began stroking his dark beard, decorated with simple leather ties, “I understand that it will cause a minor struggle in the village folk-“

“A minor struggle? Hah!” The second man scoffed, and slammed his fist down on the table, “Our families barely scrape by as it is, and the Gods think they can walk in and take our riches? It is despicable! Where is the charity? By Hel’s fury, if Frigga knew of our suffering she would take Odin by the ear and tell him to sort his councils out!”

“And Odin is to blame?” Another jutted in; a woman in her early forties, thin-faced and straight black hair, “Are you mad? Has your blondeness got to your head, Knut? We are at mercy of the corrupt Lords, not the Gods. The King is blind to the atrocities that the Council create and if he knew about it, then he would stop it!”

“Idunn, don’t be so naive,” A fourth woman joined, “Odin has the ability to investigate the rich, but he has not done so. The Royal family profit from the rich, and Frigga’s tongue is silenced by the bigoted pigs that Odin holds his Council with.”

“Don’t you start again, Vigdis!” The first man started again, “The oppression of our people is equal, and there is little difference between Asgardian men and women.”

As the first man was scolded and educated by his wife, you turned your attention to the man at the bar. It was Roald’s father, the owner.

“I see the village are divided by the news,” You observed, picking up enough tankards for the late night customers.

"Aye, more like the village is against it,” Roald’s father rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Nothing this big has happened to the village since the last visits, and the-“

“I know,” You cut in quick, “And big events always mean bad news.”

“Aye,” Roald’s father eyes had a glimmer of guilt, but they glittered joy at the sight of ale filling the tankards to the brim, “Aye, this will do us nicely. Thank you, (y/n).”

You gave him a short smile, and leant against the bar, listening to the conversation at the table.

“Three days to entertain, feed and care for the Princes, and their royal party,” Vigdis’ husband sighed. The late hours of night had taken toll on the villagers in the tavern, and their faces were worn and drained as the mood settled.

“We will need to take the best hunters to go with them on their Royal Hunt. They will try and catch a Silver Stag or Hart, I think.”

“I doubt they will,” You spoke, and everyone’s eyes went to you, “Silver Deer only appear at night. They’ll try for a Gold Deer, they’re more common.”

“Aye, it’s true, Royal folk no nothing of the animals they hunt. Say, you’d better go to the Royal Hunt, (y/n),” said Knut, “You know the woods better than anyone.”

“Mm,” You rubbed the bottom of your lip with the tip of your finger. What he meant was, _you’ve killed bandits before_.

You first dealt with bandits at seventeen, on the way back from the Black Market on your first mission with the Guild. You are a confessed criminal, and no divine woman, but bandits are the scum of Asgardian flesh, the product of greed and lack of compassion. Everyone deserves forgiveness in your eyes, but these people only have one merciful escape in your eyes: death. Rapists, kidnappers, slavers, abusers; everything you aim to protect your village from. The Guild’s motto “Protect Your Own” rang true as you came to back to the Guild wet with tears and bandits’ blood running warm on your hands.

You do not remember what happened that night. But your boss forbids you to think of it, and you are glad of that. Now each encounter is a seamless movement of knife to throat. You can carry that burden of blood on your hands, so when bandits are edging too near to the King’s Road, you’re sent to deal with them.

“I don’t want to ask too much of you, (y/n),” Roald’s father turned his chair to you, “But on the second night of the Royal Visit, you will play your fiddle and sing for them, yes?”

You broke from your thoughts, and began smiling, “I do love playing the fiddle. Alright, for the people. Not for the Kings’ Guard. But if they require entertainment, then that is what I’ll give them.”

“That is not the only entertainment they will be looking for,” Idunn looked weary, and took a strong sip of her ale. Vigdis fidgeted. You locked your jaw.

Knut frowned. “There is a whorehouse not two mile from here. They’ll have to ride there if they want whores.”

“I’m sure they could wait three days to drop their breeches,” You scowled a little, playing with the ale tap.

“We are dealing with men who would fuck a horse if it gave them just a glance.”

“Language!” Vigdis smacked her husband’s thick arm, and you snorted.

“Not all of them are bad,” You shrugged, standing up straight, “But they are used to being supplied with what they wish. We live in different worlds to them. So... I’ll keep them in line.”

The whole table’s attention fell on you. Idunn breathed deeply, rubbing her hands together, showing clear concern. Others were more pleased with the proposition.

“Aye,” Knut wiped some froth from his golden moustache, “I do fear for my daughters. They are strong, aye, but no fighters. They are too polite and scared of these men to say no.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. They won’t even look at the girls here.”

Vigdis then looked straight to you with sad, weary eyes, “And what about you?”

Your brow furrowed, and your lips formed a loose half-smile, “What do you mean?”

“You’re a pretty girl. Quick-tongued, smart. You won’t escape unnoticed.”

You leant back onto your hand, your smile breaking into a grin. You could have laughed, but you did not want to seem like you were mocking the woman, “You see, Vigdis, I have this way of getting the King’s Guard to hate me as soon as they lay eyes on me,” The table broke into a soft laughter, “I do not know whether it’s because of my wit, or that I suspiciously look like a kleptomaniac.”

Vigdis shared a look with her husband, and her husband’s sudden solemn tone made your smile falter, “It’s not the King’s Guard we are worried about, (y/n).”

You looked about the table, and each of them had lost the laughter from their eyes and fell into a deep contemplation. You tucked a loose strand of hair that had fallen from your braid.

“You do not mean...?” You murmured.

Knut finished his drink quickly, “Envy runs deep in his blood, as well restlessness and cunning. He looks at his brother like he is his one obstacle to the throne. I do not trust him still.”

“No one should trust him,” Idunn finished quietly.

“He could have anyone he wanted,” You spoke quickly, crossing your arms, “They would bring whores if he so desired. He is licentious, yes, but he’s not some guard or bandit who takes whatever comes to him. And if he beds me, so what? I am no more or no less the person I am now. I am, after all, not just anyone, and this Prince would be lucky to have me.”

No one was surprised by your response. In fact, Roald’s father raised a brow in amusement and shook his head. It was only Vigdis who remained sombre.

“Exactly, my love. You are not just anyone. Which is why we fear he will not let you slide out of his reach so easily. He may remember you from five year ago, he may not. It does not matter. You both have acquired a love of rarities, and Loki... Loki likes collecting them.”

“Well,” You pushed yourself up and stretched, readying yourself to go, “He can try all he likes, but not even a God owns me.”

There were a few chuckles, but the late night air hung heavy and cold around them. Roald’s father collected up the empty tankards and you said goodbye to the company, who were beginning to argue about the rising taxes on bread. You opened the door, and were hit by the cool crisp air of night, and the light of a thousand stars above your head. You let in a shaky breath and exhaled a puff of smoke. You liked your breath in the cold and stretched your fingers; nights like this reminded you of your sorcery, but even mentioning magic in an Asgardian village brought about all sorts of distrust. It seemed being known as a thief was better than being a sorcerer.

When you got back home, your mother was relaxed back in the sofa, singing a simple child’s rhyme with a fat, ginger cat curled in her lap. Its sleepy, green eyes peered open, and his miaow sounded a bit more like a groan.

“I don’t think Ragna appreciates your singing, mama.”

Your mother stopped singing and clasped her hands together, “Ragnaruff is a spoilt cat and should be grateful for everything we give him.”

Ragna purred and went back to sleeping, ignoring the chides of your mother. You sat down on the stool beside your mother, and held her dainty hands between your rough pair.

“Mama, the Royal Princes are visiting our village tomorrow. They are staying for three days, so I may be needed more often than usual.”

Your mother’s unfocused eyes sparked with excitement and her voice was soft and like sing-song, “Oh, how wonderful! Thor’s engagement to Sif has been something I have known for years, even before the Coming of Age ceremonies! And Frigga, oh what a sweet woman she is. I have met her many times before, she’s always been kind to me, like her husband. Without his rule, I do not think I’d be here today!”

Your smile stopped, “Mother, don’t say that. Don’t speak about that.”

Her joy did not die down, “I know what I am saying, my child! And his fostered son, Loki, now I see a light growing in that boy, I see it. A dark past he has been through, but what a bright future he will have!”

“Prince Loki is an arsehole, mama.”

Your mother smacked your hand and wagged her finger, “Don’t say those words in front of me! And if you’re going to use language like that, then so will I.”

You stifled giggles, “No, mama-“

“We’re either arseholes, or pain in the arses, in the eyes of the Gods. For example, I am a pain in the arse because you need to care for me. So that makes you an arsehole, as you steal from others.”

“You’re so supportive, mama,” You kiss her cheek, “I best get this pain in the arse to bed now, shouldn’t I?”

“Oh, you cheeky child,” Your mother brushed off the cat as she rose to her feet, who fell into a flabby, orange heap onto the floor and yowled. You guided your mother in dim candlelight to the only bed in the house, and helped her climb into it before you kissed her goodnight. You blew out her candle, and got yourself ready for bed.

You splashed your face with some fresh water from the basin, and stripped yourself of your work garments and threw on a large, cotton nightgown. You blew out the rest of the candles around the tiny house, the sweet smoke filling the air and you scampered to the sofa by the burnt out fire, to curl up on. You shivered, but never felt so content. It was only the growing dread that festered in your stomach that kept you uncomfortable.

And the fat lump of fur that was settling on your stomach. You sighed, and readied yourself for another night’s sleep at home.


	5. The Bramblebush Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there people! I hope you are all doing well! I've had a very active summer, and so I have been absolutely terrible in updating! So, major apologies, and I hope to get myself on track soon.  
> I think I have mentioned it, but I did some major planning while I was on holiday. So I'm going to have to buck up my updating so I can share my ideas with you! After all, not only am I doing this for fun, but I'm also doing it for you. 500 hits, man! Very exciting.  
> This next chapter is a small one (I think), and not exactly action-packed, but necessary. You'll see why. Anyway, please enjoy, let me know what you think, and I will write the sixth chapter asap!

You awoke with a groan, followed by your back cracking as you stretched out. Ragna had, in his unexplainable way, taken most of the sofa and left you sleeping curled and cramped. You swung your legs and placed your feet on the cold, hard ground. Dawn’s cool rays were breaking over the land in mellow light; dew will be thick on the grass and crops, and a sharp summer morning was approaching. You breathed deep. With your gentle push, Ragna rolled off the sofa into a ginger splodge at your feet, and quickly bounced off to find a mouse to snack on, and to find the perfect spot to relax for the rest of the day. It was tempting to copy his behaviour, but alas, work was to be done.

You went to the outhouse, did your business and ran a shallow bath. You scrubbed yourself sore, cleaning the cuts and scars that blemished your skin until you felt wholly cleansed. The fields were simple work, and you would finish before the midday sun would reach its scorching peak. You were given an afternoon off on the Moon’s day and Frigga’s day, but the rest of the week was back to back work: the fields in the day, and most nights serving in the tavern. No wonder you looked forward to tasks set by the Thieves’ Guild.

The work garments were thin and simple, with long skirts to protect your legs from the brambles’ sharp leaves, and a brown bodice that you nimbly laced up. You wore leather slippers and a woollen shawl that you could easily slip off during work. Briefly, your thoughts settled on the rich and exquisite fabrics the rich wore in their daily lives. How gorgeous they must feel, to glide across marble in silk gowns plentiful in vibrancy and jewels and style their hair with ribbons and flowers and feel a little bit more divine. You tied your knotted hair into a simple bun. You have no time for such desires.

After tiptoeing into your mother’s room and giving her a peck on the cheek, you left the house and stepped into the morning light. There was not much life from the other households; the school set up in the Village Hall started when the bell tolled nine, and most jobs began on the eighth hour of the morning, but not yours. The Village Hall bell would soon ring in the sixth hour, and the cart carrying all the field workers would tumble off down the Queen’s Road. A few had begun to gather near the edge of the village, near your house. A young girl, about fifteen, was kicking the dirt around her feet. You smiled.

“Dagrun?”

Your voice carried. The young girl snapped her head up, and smiled sheepishly. You walked over to her, nodding at the others gathered by the road.

“How does your little brother fare?” You clipped your heels together and tilted your head, still smiling gently.

Dagrun smoothed down the cinnamon strands of hair that stuck out of her frizzy ponytail, “He is well, (y/n). He can say a few words. Mama, Dada,” she smiled at the ground, “Dag, on occasions.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“Aye,” Dagrun twisted her dress in her hands. Your brow furrowed. The young girl was more confident in your presence usually, but it seemed you had no effect on her today.

You sighed.

“Are you nervous about the Princes, Dag?”

There was pause, and then Dagrun nodded quickly. You held out your hand as you did when she becomes anxious, and squeezed it.

“If there is any moment you need to hold my hand, come and hold my hand. The last visit was not so bad, and there is nothing to fear when you are here with me, yes?”

“Nothing to fear,” she repeated, smiling at the floor again. More workers gathered round, and more girls Dagrun’s age arrived and waved excitedly at you. You wouldn’t want to brag, but you felt rather like what Midgardians called a _celebrity_.

The work cart arrived, and everyone piled on in an orderly line. You were last on, and sat always next to a short-haired maiden with big, brown eyes and pouty lips.

“Mornin’, (y/n).”

“Good morning, Tora. How’s Haldor?”

“Jovial, as always.”

“Still hasn’t asked for your hand?”

Tora scoffed, “Oh, I wish. More likely to catch a silver stag now, than walk down the altar.”

You laughed truly, and with the flick of reigns and soft snort of horses, the cart jerked forward and you were on the way to work.

The sun was on the rise now, soaring high, no longer in the early warm yellows like butter but the bright, hot shine of summer, and the sky was the sharpest blue. There was no sweet breeze: the dust off the road hung heavy in the air and drifted slowly back to the ground. The day would be unrelenting, unapologetic. You could already feel sweat gathering on your forehead.

You jumped off the cart outside a small barn, and the workers trailed after you. Inside the barn were rows of pegs, each with a simple bracelet and a basket hanging from it, and a simple desk with a small man reading a rather large book. Your eyes scanned the pegs. Number 46. You picked up the bracelet on peg 46 and adorned it, and rested the basket’s handle on the crook of your arm. Your shift had begun.

The exit by the pegs led you onto the bramblebush fields. Here, you and your fellow workers toiled to collect the succulent brambles on the thorny bushes throughout the day, in your allocated spot. In the summer you would pick the berries in the fields, in autumn you would collect the apples in the orchard surrounding the barn, in the winter there was no work, and in the spring all would tend the bushes and the trees so they were ready to fruit again. Such a boring business, but your pay was based on how much you collected, how many plants you tended. And with your quick and nimble hands, you earned well enough.

Pick, and place, pick, and place. The sun beat down harsh on your head and you slipped off your shawl. Commoner garbs were designed for cover, not comfort. Thank the Gods you did not need to wear such clothes for your Guild’s tasks. It was dreary work, and you heard the distant sound of an old nursery rhyme, the voice calling to her fellow workers to join her. Soon enough, everyone was singing, and you let your voice soar into the empty sky and the words fill your mind.

 

_I dreamt me a dream the other night_

_Of silks and noble fur;_

_When I woke up this morning_

_They were no longer there._

 

_I dreamt me a dream the other night_

_Of amber and silver and gold;_

_When I woke up this morning_

_Away from my grasp they rolled._

 

_I dreamt me a dream the other night_

_That you would love me true;_

_When I woke up this morning_

_My arms were holding you._

 

The song repeated another time. Your eyes started to wander. The prickles of the bramblebush leaves, the rich colour of the berries (you plucked one and popped it into your mouth), the hot haze settling in the horizon, the proud horses trotting along the Queen’s Road-

Your eyes widened. The singing ceased. The Royal Princes had arrived.

There was a train of horses, at least thirty, most transporting their masters or pulling small carriages filled with luggage. You could see the gold chains and fine leather from where you were stood, and you near drooled thinking about the trinkets and treasures that they have brought with them: detailed maps of the Realm meticulously designed, rare Dwarfish armour made from the finest ores, generous gifts from all over the land to gain Royal favour, potent weapons crafted for Gods...

Snapping out of your daydream, you looked toward the men leading the Royal party. A man at the front was dressed in King’s Guard garb, head held high – he must have been sweltering with the helmet on. Behind him was a Lord dressed in a gold breastplate and fine green jacket over it, with matching trousers and knee high brown boots; his blonde hair was swept back and styled in a quiff, and he had a charming smile playing on his lips. This was Fandral. You had not seen Lord Fandral before. In fact, it had been many years since a Royal Visit to your village, that you were a mere girl of sixteen when the Royal family last came. The Princes were no older than you – they would have been just boys too, and they must have matured and changed over the last five years. Curious as always, you looked to the rider behind, and you observed the Golden Prince.

Thor was as mighty as they say. Seated upon his brown stallion, his presence captured the attention of all around him, as if all light was drawn to him and he was your focal need, your sun. A true King in the making. It was an honour to just lay eyes on him; so many times you had been bitter about these pompous princes and lords, but whenever Thor visited, you understood why so many loved and adored the Thunder God. He was divine. Golden haired, stormy eyed, grinning in joy and guffawing at whatever joke Fandral made off the cuff. His voice rumbled through the fields. That’s who you wished you could be. To have no need to steal or lie. To be wholly good, just; to be a true hero for the people.

But here you were. Indigent, peasant, thief.

Your eye line was lured to the black stallion behind the future King. And then its master. Behind such light came the dark, and after Thor was Loki. Loki… Your mind stalled at his name. You had come across other sorcerers in your time. Apprentices, masters, magicians. You knew he was learning his trade at the last Royal visit. None compared to the power that pulsed from the God of Mischief now, and it made your brain throb even trying to comprehend it. He had deific power, beyond anything you could ever dream to control. Your ambition, your curiosity had become weakness, and for now you were captivated by him.

Loki. Pale in the sunlight, but not fragile; features sharp with no flaw to be seen from where you were standing, and his face was set in stone, staring straight ahead. The darkness of his hair only made him paler, his hair appearing soft and thick like raven’s feathers. The Prince bore a rich green doublet, slim fitting and a black jerkin over the top. Everything about him was angular – he was smaller and leaner than his brother, but you knew not to underestimate strength. Or wit.

The Prince appeared utterly jaded. You locked your jaw and began picking berries again, clearing yourself from your clouded thoughts. It must be so hard to travel the whole of Asgard and be given services and entertainment for free. You picked furiously, and you cut yourself on one of the bramblebush leaves. You hissed.

“(y/n)!”

You snapped your head to the whisper. Dagrun, wide-eyed and pale, was knelt on the ground hiding herself between the thorny bushes, her fingers knotted in her skirts, and as you flicked your eyes around, your throat tightened and your insides became tangled and twisted. Everyone on the field was knelt, heads bowed. And you were not.

“Shit,” You murmured, and the whole royal company stopped. The guard at the front of the train eased his horse and swung down to the ground. Despite the fact your insides were threatening to escape your body one way or another, you sighed. It was an odd mixture of dread, and resignation, and then finally complacency.

As you mentioned to your friends at the Inn last night, the King’s Guard hate you on sight.

You awaited the guard’s arrival, marching past the knelt workers and scratching against the bramblebushes. He huffed as he came closer, “You are directly disrespecting the Royal Princes and your Lord? Get on your knees.”

Your gaze bore into the guard. He was much taller and broader than you thought; your stare did not waver.

“Did you not hear me, girl? I said on your knees.”

You closed your eyes and breathed deeply. A surge of comforting coolness untangled your belly and waited, waited. A hand grabbed your shoulder. And the coolness shot through your body, to your shoulder and straight through into the Guard. Opening your eyes, you forced away a smirk, for the guard’s eyes were glazed, and his hand had dropped.

The workers knelt were beginning to lift their heads to see what the commotion was about. Quickly you looked to the Royal Party, lowered your head, and curtsied.

“I deeply regret my behaviour, your highnesses, and my lord-“

A deferential voice cut in, “The fault is mine, O Hea-“

You tapped the dazed guard and a discreet shock of silver shuddered through him to shut him up. Being revealed to be an infamous thief by a King’s Guard would not only be unwanted, but also embarrassing.

You continued on, “But I was so taken with my work. I did not want to waste a moment that I could spend raising more money for my village, for formalities I can happily abide by later, if you excuse me.”

Nothing was said. Fandral’s horse stomped its hoof and snorted. The lord looked to the future King, utterly amused.

“I think we can let the dear woman go, just this once, your highness.”

You glanced up. The Golden Prince observed you. He breathed deeply, and made a small nod.

“There is no need to apologise, my lady. It is welcoming to see hard work, like it was five year ago. I’m afraid my father’s men can be too intense, I think. I apologise.”

Taken aback by Thor’s words, you grinned in reply, “Your highness, welcome to Kanten.”

Thor gave a small smile and nodded, and Fandral summoned the King’s Guard, calling him a “bloody fool” and telling him to get back on his “damn horse”. The poor man appeared entirely bewildered by what was going on, and kept begging his pardon to the workers he passed. They giggled. Rising back to their feet, the workers were beginning to spiritedly pluck berries and sing another old song with a sense of confidence and excitement like a light breeze through the hot, heavy air. The Royal Party continued onward, and you watched.

Despite your better mood, you could see the glares from a few of the other King’s Guard directed at you, and their snarls and scowls. You knew how proud they could be. And for, Gods forbid, a _woman_ to outdo a guard, it would be a great insult for some. Others were much happier with the arrival into Kanten. You chuckled to yourself. Maybe this Royal visit would not be so bad.

Yet something did not settle within you. It flickered about in your chest, cold and agitating, fading your smile, and something kept luring your concentration, but you persevered. You gathered more berries, faster, murmuring the song’s words, but the feeling persisted and your eyes flickered about, trying not to look. But you had weakness. You gave in, and you froze.

Loki was staring at you, his face still hard and eyes cold. When you met gazes, he blinked and relaxed. His softer expression surprised you, and it reminded you of five year ago, of a boy full of wonder – it was a surprise for both, it seemed, as the Prince seemed bemused by your reaction. So many times you could remain unaffected, look away in disdain and be proud, but how strange he was to you and the power that exuberated from him enticed you to remain in place. You thought of your mother, her babbling about this man. But his expression changed too soon. It was a look of conceit, and it broke the stupor you let yourself fall into.

You looked away, jaw locked. And the Prince’s mouth tilted upward into a callous smirk, and he continued down the Queen’s Road.


	6. The Storybook Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back!
> 
> I'm so sorry for being the worst at updating - a year must be some sort of record. But this fan fiction is very close to my heart and I really REALLY want to get my story to you guys. The hits, kudos and comments have been such a lovely surprise and I want to say a big thank you to those reading this story. You're the best!
> 
> I'm going to try and write a chapter weekly while balancing college work. I gotta have some fun!
> 
> I'm also going to be making a few changes to the previous chapters - nothing drastic that affects the plot, so really you don't need to know. But you deserve to! Seeing as some of you have been waiting a while for this next chapter... My bad.
> 
> ANYWAY, I best stop chatting and let you get reading. Here is the long awaited chapter six!

The summer sun was setting in a warm orange, with purple bruising the skyline, and you had remained home for the majority of the afternoon, rereading some Midgardian tales and cooking dinner for your mother. Two gold coins glittered by the cooking pot, your work condensed into your pay. You spooned another lump of hot, comfort soup, and chewed away bitterly. Pay will be lacking for the next month or so.

Your mother’s mood was of a much lighter spirit. She had been singing for the whole afternoon, her lilting tone much like the birds’ song in the nearby forest and it filled your humble home. Ragna did not enjoy it as much as you did, and found haven in having his belly rubbed by your foot. An old Midgardian fairytale was balanced on your knee. The pages were crinkled and yellowing, and made a quaint creaking sound when you turned them. As she sewed a patch on a simple dress, your mother pricked up in her seat. She had become accustomed to the sound.

“What are you reading, my lovely?”

“Something,” You chewed quickly to finish of your meal, and swallowed, “It’s an old Midgardian fairytale book.”

“Aren’t they banned?” Your mother mused.

“They might be.”

As your mother shook her head, there was several co-ordinated knocks on the door followed by shushes and giggles. Grinning, your mother cut the thread.

You put down your bowl while refraining a smile, and you avoided stepping on Ragna and moved to the door, book in hand. You waited a few moments, turned the knob, and swung the door open to a hoard of children on your doorstep, little ones with bright faces, older children holding siblings’ hands or grouped together at the back, all gazing at you with hopeful eyes.

“And what is this rabble doing at _my_ doorstep?” You feigned a disapproving tone. The young giggled.

“Story! Please, a story!” The polite pleas of the village children warmed your inners, and you produced a soft smile. At the school in the Village Hall, respect and kindness were taught as well as the pursuit of basic knowledge and skill. And you would uphold this teaching through your own actions to these children, as best you could.

“As you asked so nicely, then I suppose I shall,” You proclaimed; a flurry of cheers and bouncing up and down occurred, and you laughed heartily. Children could be rather strange. A gentle goodbye to your mama, and you closed the door and followed the children up to a small hill near the Village Hall, where there was a well and little white daises popping up in the grass. Storybook Hill – the name stuck for years now. A youth carrying a round-faced babe wrapped in cloth held out the child to you and politely asked to look after the sibling, and very carefully you scooped the baby in your free arm and cooed at it.

“Hi, _(y/n)_.”

You looked to your right, and beamed, “Hello Dagrun. And, hello there Nadir.”

The boy in Dagrun’s arms did not reply. His eyes were unfocused, staring straight ahead, unaware of any event but the scenery around him. For Dagrun, he was getting a little too big to carry now; she was only a dainty thing, and he was coming up to four years old in the Winter.

“He pointed at one of the books you gave me for my birthday,” Dagrun adjusted her brother, “So I took him with me. If that’s not inconvenient-“

“Not at all,” Stopping at the top of the hill, noticing the children settling down on the gentle slope, you smiled at Dagrun, then Nadir and he looked at you, “It will be a pleasure to have him.”

“I hope he can sit through the story, with it being his first time. I don’t know how much he’ll understand either, and I-“

Dagrun bit her lip and you nodded, bouncing the baby as its chubby fingers splayed on your cheek.

“See how he is, and if you need to take him home, that’s fine. Storytelling isn’t for every child.”

In response, she forced a smile, and she put her brother down and sat behind him, holding him close. You settled down too. The baby rested between on your legs, and patted you as if you were a drum.

Behind the children was the backdrop of the Kings’ Road, and the forests that surrounded it, and beyond towards the south east was the Edge of the World. The trees were cast in deep amber from the setting sun, and the eastern sky was lilac fading to an inky blue.

“Are you ready for a story?”

A flurry of excitement washed over them, and you opened your storybook to a random fairytale that you had read too many times. Little did the children know, you made some of the tales up as you went along, capturing the right mood to enthral your little spectators and inspire their imaginations. With a deep breath, and scanning the crowd with watchful eye, you began your story.

“Once upon a time, in a land not so far from our own, there was a-“

“Are there dragons?”

“Is it scary?”

“Is there a princess? And a prince?”

You poked your tongue against your cheek while the children giggled.

“Maybe you will find out, if you let me finish.”

More giggles. The sun was fading fast, and carts filled with villagers wearied from labour were rattling into the main square; some of the children turned their heads to spot their mama or papa. They would be waiting for them to come home for dinner. You were used to the children losing some interest – your ego was not that large.

“So, once upon a time, there was a brother and a sister whose wicked stepmoth- father,” you adapted, for you own sake, “whose stepfather was cruel to them…”

A boo came from the adolescents from the back, followed by guffaws. You gave them an amused glare.

“… so the brother and sister ran away together, into a forest. Like Sjor Woods! They were very tired from their journey and desperately thirsty. However, the wicked stepfather had cursed the streams of the forest. The brother bent to drink the water of one stream, but the sister heard the stream whisper ‘driiiiink meeee and become a TIGER!’”

You roared and the children gasped and giggled. On the outskirts of Storybook Hill, parents began to linger, listening intently and smiling at their children sat above the village, away from trouble, away from the worries and doubts and fears of adulthood. Away from the Kings’ Guard, which were guarding every entrance into the town and into The Silver Hart.

“The girl cried, ‘no, brother, you musn’t drink the water!’ So they moved onto the next stream, and the brother bent down to drink the water, when the sister heard the stream whisper ‘driiiiink meeee and become a woooOOOOLF!” You howled and howled until the children joined in too, and a gentle ripple of laughter washed over the observers.

“The sister told him again, ‘you musn’t drink the water!’ Eventually they came to a stream that was all too tempting for the brother. The sister heard the stream whisper ‘driiiiink meeee and become a deer!” You made a single antler with your spare hand and the babe gurgled in your arm. Your eyes flicked between the infant’s brown eyes and the illustrations, “And as the brother drank the enchanted water, he transformed into a shimmering, silver deer!”

You traced a fingertip on sketch of the deer. It was moonlight white on the yellow page, pure and unblemished despite the years.

“In fear of being hunted, the sister and her deer-brother decided to live in the forest forever. That’s no way to live! But lived that way they did, in a small little hut in the thickest, darkest part of the woods. Until-“

“Prince!”

“Uh-“ You cocked your head, staring hard at the words in the book, then at the child who spoke, stumped by the outburst by sheer surprise, “How did you know? Have I told you this before?”

“ _Prince!_ ” She repeated, young eyes wide looking to your left.

You peered to the side, then slowly turned your head. Your bewilderment was swept away to reveal a stony composition. _Prince_ , the child had squeaked in fear, and your eyes flickered to the thicker crowd around the hill then Prince Loki who was standing a few feet away from the children.

You had lied to Roald last night. This was your first swan’s feet moment. Your mind jumped from thing to the next: the unnerving stillness of the children, the hushed mutterings of the villagers, the colourful garb of the Mayor. Your eyes fell to her. A mix of concern and confusion creased her brow; she nodded urgently with those unblinking hazel eyes. _Your move._

Loki stepped round into your sightline, gaining the wanted attention. He was dressed more comfortably, without the black jerkin from this morning and seemed unaffected by the arduous journey. In fact, his appearance was brighter and livelier as the night drew near, the jaded scowl now replaced with a trivial curiosity; what he was curious about, you did not know.

Not a child made a sound. Loki’s sharp eye scanned the children, and with a raised brow and slight smile he mused in a compelling tone, “I hope I have not interrupted your fun.”

The baby in your arms gurgled. You bounced it gently as you calculated a response. _Your move._

“No, your grace,” you offered him a smile, and you feigned a cheerier tone towards the children, “Not even the Prince can disrupt our fun, can he?”

A nervous ‘no’ sang from the children, and a low chuckle was Loki’s response.

“I did not intend to disturb you. Please, continue.”

You licked your lips and gazed at the book. A breeze fluttered through your hair and rustled the old pages, and the reverberating thump-thump of blood had not slowed. The swan’s feet were threatening to stop altogether, and you needed to relax.

If it was possible to be relaxed around a God.

“Erm…” You blinked a couple of times, and you found the word that caused all the commotion in the first place, “Until one day the brother and the sister were disturbed by a Prince.”

Testing the water, you raised your brows and looked at Loki, “It must be a Princely thing, your grace.”

Nonchalantly he crossed his arms, and his small smile grew to the callous smirk you recognised before, “Oh, it must be.”

You continued on with your criminal confidence, “It’s confirmed, children. Prince Loki says that all princes butt in.”

The younger ones giggled a little; the older ones were still disquieted.

You pressed the story on, “The Prince was with a hunting party when they spotted that strange, silver deer. They decided to follow it all the way into the darkest, thickest part of the forest, where the silver shimmer of the deer was their only guide. Upon discovering the sister inside the little hut, the Prince immediately asked the maiden to marry him.”

A few of the little ones cooed and Loki arched one dark brow.

“Why?”

You stopped. The first adolescent to speak since Loki came. Bjarte, his name was. You could almost cry aloud in relief, but you let your growing grin and alighted eyes convey the more spirited mood.

“Why did the Prince propose to the girl? Hmm…” You frowned dramatically and scratched your head. And this, you knew, would spark some normality back into the evening, as children loved to shout.

An array of answers was blurted to you – luckily you could decipher excited babble. The cool stare of Loki skimmed the children, and did you see a faint flicker of warmth, no? His head turned to you and you snapped your gaze to the teenagers.

“What do you think, Bjarte?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. Nobody’s _that_ attractive.”

Loki grinned.

“Well clearly the Prince thought she was,” you countered.

“Did she say yes?” Another boy, Felman, piped up.

“Yes.”

“Probably for the money,” Bjarte quipped.

“ _Anyway,_ the sister said yes and they were married, and she became a princess. And…”

You stopped briefly to read ahead. The stepmother (or stepfather, in this case) discovered that, to no one’s surprise, the siblings were still alive. In good fairy tale style the villain killed the sister and replaced her with a disguised demon. You tutted internally. The sister then haunted her husband and the stepmother’s plan was foiled. Somehow, the author avoided how the princess was brought back life, and decided the right punishment for the stepfather in a children’s story was to be stoned to death. A soft groan came from your throat; you did not want to have to deal with _too_ many questions this evening.

“And?” The baritone of Loki’s voice drew you from your deliberations.

“And…” A sly idea cut your mumbling and glimmered in your eye, “The end… For now.”

You shut the book and all the children moaned.

“Not again!”

“Don’t do this to us, (y/n)!”

“Not a cliffhanger!”

Whiny little begs chimed in your ear and you shook your head, pursing your lips to stop yourself from breaking your serious act. Your eye had wandered to the Prince again. He ran his fingers through his thick hair; his eyes were narrowed, a complete aura of craftiness and amusement. He raised his chin.

“I could command her to continue.”

The moaning ceased. The children, wide-eyed, ogled up at their Prince. The God they heard only from conversations. You wondered which ones would grow up to hate him just because of their parents.

“Can you actually do that?” Dagrun was as pallid as the morning, and the words she spoke seemed to leave her mouth without her anxiety’s permission. If you weren’t mistaken, Loki had a hint of recognition of the girl that stood by you in the field, and he tried his best to be amiable.

“Yes, I can.”

A moment passed. Then to your complete surprise and shame, every child turned to Loki and begged him to do it.

With a reddening face and embarrassed laugh, you rose to your feet and clutched the chubby infant to you while you tried to rise above the children’s cries telling them the Prince was lying and that story time was over.

It did nothing.

The adolescents had their fill of fun and dispersed away towards their parents, glancing back at the Prince who was laughing in good spirit at the younglings jumping up and down and spurting out all sorts of queries to Loki. It was horribly charming. The young teenager that had handed you the now sleeping baby thanked you and took back her sibling, and as the crowd of children thinned, you really noticed the villagers that had gathered around the Storybook Hill.

You spotted Knut with his two daughters, nineteen and seventeen, talking to his son Bjarte; and Vigdis, carrying a rather tired six-year-old on her hip. Other children were running rings around their parents, bubbling about story time and a real life Prince and how exciting it was that he was here. They had no idea.

The Mayor animatedly discussed the village and the children and whatever else of interest to Prince Thor. He too was in more casual clothing, nodding in respect and forming dazzling smiles at the tales he was told. A sharp finger pointed in your direction, and the Royal Hunt jumped into your mind. You would have rolled your eyes, but you weren’t certain whether Thor would have noticed or not. He raised his hand in friendly gesture, and you curtsied. If he only knew how bad you really were.

When you raised your head, there was only Loki waiting for you now. You smoothed down your hair and curtsied for him too.

“I hope my jests did not cause offence, your grace,” You offered a fake apology, still smiling from the children’s antics.

“Do not bother with fake formalities,” He waved it off, his tone a lot more crisp and cold than it was with the children.

“Then I won’t,” Your smile dulled, and how easy it felt to slip into your natural demeanour. That swan’s feet was still racing, yes, but it was no longer afraid to break someone’s arm.

You both stood there at the top of the hill, long black shadows etching across the hill as the last of the setting sun burnt across the land in red. Above your head hanged a cool indigo, and when you glanced up you saw the brightest stars beginning to appear amongst the dark blues and purples of night.

“I remember you.”

You looked at Loki. He was observing you, as if trying to locate the exact memory as to which you shadowed in. You denied him the satisfaction of working it out.

“I played the fiddle in the tavern.”

“Ah, of course,” He murmured, as if not wholly convinced, “My brother got up and danced every single time. It was deplorable.”

“At least he danced.”

Loki scoffed. You glanced at home. Mother would want to retire to bed soon, and you did not want to keep her up.

“I’m afraid I will be retiring to bed, your grace.”

Loki frowned, “You do not fiddle anymore?”

Was there nothing this man cannot be curious about? You refrained a sigh, and replied quickly, “I still do. It’s my night off, but I work at the tavern as a maid in the evenings, and work in the fields in the day. Playing the fiddle is a hobby of mine.”

“What a shame. It would have been pleasant for me to see you in there.”

“I’m demanded by many, with time for a few.”

His eyes darted over you, and he gave you a biting grin, “I’m sure you will have time for me.”

“Brother, come join us in the tavern,” a warmer voice called across, and Thor was at the entrance of The Silver Stag. With reluctance, Loki turned away from you and with large steps treaded down the hill.

You let out a steady breath as the tension dissipated in the cooling air. You had not realised how tight you balled your fists, or how set your jaw was. You touched your throbbing mind. A cool glass of water, that’s what you needed. And your mother.

You glanced up to the stars, silver shimmers that guide us in the night. You gritted your teeth – oh Princess of Stars, what light do you bear?

_I see a light growing in that boy._

“That’s your problem, mama,” you whispered, looking down to your trembling hands, those hands that steal, those hands that destroy. “You see a light in everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When writing this chapter, I got major writing block. How do I write the first talk with you and Loki? How do I spark an interesting relationship while still conveying true character intentions and personality? I'm sure I will come back to this chapter in the future and tweak things, but I will let you know if that happens!
> 
> Thanks again, and see you soon!


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